Elvis Has Left The Building

It looks like an office but he knows it isn’t – the place is skinned in metaphor. He hates these Pathetic Fallacy projects where the landscape shifts under the feet of the rats in the maze, but how else do you box up someone you don’t want to escape?

He has felt hopeless here, and he has tightened his tie into a noose that breaks because he thinks he will fail at even that. When the environment is like an armour of free-fall, what are you going to do? Everything moves with you, and you cannot leave.

He’s been dropped in here to help someone who seems to be building a one man Friction Engine out of opposition phrases.

‘What is your name?’

‘Not Elvis.’

‘Hello, my liege.’

‘Yeah, so I guess it’s not opposite day?’

‘Only for you.’

He kept the banter rolling. The fact that this guy seemed happy was not good, given the dynamic that had been set up. How long until it blew wide open?

He reached into his holster and pulled out his gun, and shot himself in the gut. The red flower that bloomed in Bartolt’s stomach region caused waves of relief to roll through him.

The room moved like it was seasick, and it began to look ragged. Thankfully, in a room with only one consciousness plugged into the drive, the Achille’s Heel was pretty easy to spot. Drop a narrative hook into him and write him out of this drama – then on to the next rescue mission.

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